When You Grow Up
by mvsicbookfrxndom
Summary: The Breakfast Club fanfiction that is a play by play run-through of the movie - and what I want to have happened afterwards.
1. Author's Note

_Monday, March 1st, 2016. An undisclosed school, Somewhere, Illinois, with a zip code eerily similar to Shermer's._

 _Dear FanFiction Readers and Writers,_

 _I_ needed _to write a Breakfast Club fanfiction because of one reason._

 _The Breakfast Club changed my life._

 _There is no other way to describe how I felt after I saw it._

 _The characters connected with me. They stuck in my mind and gave me one liners in my brain that only I heard._

 _I became obsessed._

 _Now, the only way I can fulfill my love for this movie and its characters is writing this story and continuing theirs._

 _The first part of the story is a play-by-play rendition of the movie._

 _Yeah, it's been done before, I know. I'm not trying to copy anyone else's ideas. It's just that I could never mess up the wonderful script of the actual movie by adding my own dialogue or changing it up. The characters' personalities are already cemented in history, and I want to reflect that by detailing their actions and words from the movie._

 _My own version may be different from other peoples' because I am not going to add any OCs to infiltrate the original Saturday in detention. I repeat, the beginning chapters are an incredibly detailed_ _play-by-play of the original movie. I added the thoughts and motives of the characters by putting all of it in the first person point of view from all of the characters. I believe this makes my story different from others._

 _The second part of my story is a continuation of the plot. What happened to the club after detention? (That part is mostly going to be Andrew / Allison because they are my OTP.)_

 _I hope you all enjoy._


	2. Quote

"…

And these children

that you spit on

as they try to change their worlds

are immune to your consultations.

They're quite aware

of what they're going through

…"

\- David Bowie


	3. Prologue: Dear Mr Vernon

_Saturday, March 24, 1984. Shermer High School, Shermer, Illinois, 60062._

 _Dear Mr. Vernon,_

 _We accept the fact that we had to sacrifice a whole Saturday in detention for whatever it was that we did wrong. What we did_ was _wrong. But we think you're crazy to make us write an essay telling you who we think we are. What do you care? You see us as you want to see us ― in the simplest terms, the most convenient definitions. You see us as a brain, an athlete, a basketcase, a princess, and a criminal. Correct?_

 _That's the way we saw each other at seven o'clock this morning._

 _We were brainwashed._


	4. Chapter One: Have A Good Day

I sit in the driver's seat of my dad's silver BMW, staring at the dull gray concrete face of the building with the words Shermer High School stamped on it. I don't understand what I'm feeling in the deep pits of my stomach, but I attempt at identifying it, concluding it as a mixture of disgust, horror, and sick anticipation of what might be waiting inside for me. I've never had a detention before, and I can't believe Vernon sentenced me for an entire day, a Saturday no less, to stay at school! I can barely tolerate it for the rest of the week!

Not only that, but my father forced me to dress up. For Pete's sake, I'm serving a detention, Dad. Do I really need to put on makeup, get a mani-pedi, buy a new outfit, and style my hair so it's curled up around my head? It isn't necessary, but I guess it's okay if you're rich.

I don't bother to turn to my father as I shake my head and say, "I can't believe you can't get me out of this."

I don't want to look at him, not ever.

I hear my father inhale deeply and let out an exasperated breath.

"It's so absurd I have to be here on a _Saturday_ ," I continue, partly out of anger and partly to irritate him even further. "I mean, it's not like I'm a defective or anything."

I finally bring my gaze up to my father's face as he sighs again and says, "I'll make it up to you. Honey, dissing class to go shopping doesn't make you a defective." He reaches in the backseat with his left hand and gives me a small grey bag containing my lunch, resting his other hand on my left shoulder.

 _I hate him._

The thought comes to me suddenly, like an epiphany, a revelation. I bask in the glory of this undeniable truth.

 _I hate my father._

I _hate_ his stupid plaid scarf, and his navy blue corduroy coat, and his ivory-tinted woolen sweater vest, and the white collared dress shirt he wears under it. I _hate_ his smug smile. I _hate_ the way he looks at me. I _hate_ the way he thinks he can make things better when he obviously can't.

But most of all, I _hate_ the way he thinks he's always doing me a favor with every movement he makes, every expression, every breath that circulates through his body.

I glare at him, hoping my eyes can shoot daggers into his soul and finally make him understand that no matter what he says, I don't care and I never will.

"Have a good day."

The phony love and pride in his eyes makes me want to puke. Pissed off to no end, at these words and at the look, I roll my eyes and open the door to get out of the car. I hope to leave fast enough to prevent his hand to leave a hot imprint in my back, cutting through my brown leather jacket, red sweater vest, and white, frilly collared blouse.

Unfortunately, I fail.

I sashay off, gripping my purse, and slam the door, disappointed by the wimpy, unsatisfying noise it makes as it shuts. Instead of slapping sound waves into my father's face, it sound almost muffled, like it's a goodbye ― a forever goodbye.

 _Farewell ― no, who am I kidding? I don't want you to fare well. Go to hell, Father. When I return, I hope I'll be a changed person. When I return, maybe I'll be able to say it to your face ―_

 _I hate you._

* * *

"Is this the first time or the last time you do this?"

Trying not to be ashamed ― why should I be? I don't want my mother to win over my feelings ― I look out the window, imagining myself walking up the stairs to enter the school right now rather than being in this car. Trying to ignore my mother's voice, the stupid Chicago Bears hat she forced me to put on, and my sister's car seat wedged between us, which I can feel acutely even though I wear a thick brown jacket. The little brat.

I can't deduct if she's a blessing or a curse. On the one hand, she is a buffer my mother's voice has to travel through in order to get to me. As if that made a difference in whether or not I heard her, loud and clear, her words repeatedly echoing in my ear. On the other hand, she always sides with my mother, and always finds a way to say the worst possible thing at the worst possible time.

My gaze flickers to the left, as if my body physically can't ignore my mother for long. I quench the urge to look at her in the face. "Last." I mean to say it forcefully, maybe even defiantly, but it comes out as a pathetic whisper.

I succumb to even that urge as she says, "Well, get in there and use the time to your advantage."

"Mom, we're not supposed to study. We just have to sit there and do nothing."

"Well, mister, you figure out a way to study!" she growls, anger morphing her features in an unpleasant way. My sister, with her wide brown eyes, red coat, shiny blond hair in pigtails, and red bandana with white stripes wrapped around her head stares at me and makes me feel more uncomfortable than I already am.

Right when I notice her, she decides to put her two bits in and agree with Mom. "Yeah," she says, more confident than I've ever uttered anything in my life.

I gape at her, jaw slack. Did she seriously…are you kidding me?

"Well, go!" Mom almost shouts. I glower up at her, hoping it makes her so hot with fury she can explode in her brown jacket, before pushing the door open and heaving myself out. I sling my backpack around my right shoulder and look in one last time at my mother and sister. Seeing nothing because of the anger, I close the door to Mom's red Citroen, Illinois license plate EMC 2, and walk off.

* * *

My eyes finally rest on the dashboard of Dad's car. My jaw doesn't unclench, shoulders tight and drawn. I'm sure the shame and remorse I feel is written plain as day on my face. Dad's gaze burns into my neck, and I blink a few times, unsettled but unrelenting under his long look.

I find myself wondering what he sees when he looks at me.

What do I look like on the surface? Right now, I am wearing a blue hoodie and my blue-and-gray Sherman High School sweatshirt with my name stitched on it. I can almost feel the round patch with the words State Champion in red on my left arm, and the S adorned with the logo of our school lying on top of my pounding chest.

Is this all he sees? Or does he see something more?

Does he see a son that just wants a little less weight on his shoulders? A a son that just wants a person he can talk to that will understand how he feels? A son that just wants a father he can confide in about his problems?

Of course not.

"Hey, I screwed around. Guys screw around, there's nothing wrong with that."

I nod, head hanging low.

"Except you got caught, Sport."

"Yeah, Mom already ringed me, alright?" I mutter softly, feeling my temper bubble up at the words.

When Dad speaks again, his voice is laced with as much anger as I feel. "You wanna miss a match? You wanna blow your ride?"

I shake my head, going with it.

"Now no school is gonna give a scholarship to a discipline case!"

This finally causes me to look at him. At his red hooded jacket and pale green vest and red collared button down. I can't hold back the glare as it tears through my eyes and pins him down like a clinch. I lurch out of the beige and brown car and slam the door behind me, clutching my lunch bag like it's an opponent's neck even though I want my hands to be wrapped around my dad's.

* * *

As I'm driven up to the school, the blue car I'm in almost hits a boy that struts in front of it, walking with a confident pep in his step. He doesn't even flinch. Either he doesn't know that he almost got killed, or he couldn't care less.

Watching him, I have a feeling it's the second choice.

Obviously he's as familiar with Saturday detention as I am. His hair is long and unkempt. He wears sunglasses that cover his face even though the sunlight is not glaring and requires no need of them. He is draped in a grayish-brown robe, hands dug deep into its pockets. A red bandana is tied around his neck.

His appearance absolutely _screams_ criminal.

 _Oh, John Bender,_ I say to him in my mind. _You're back. Again. Not that I'm surprised._

Remembering what I'm supposed to be doing, I climb out of the backseat of the car, holding my bag, and shove the door closed. For some reason I pause. Maybe today will be different. Maybe today they'll say, "Farewell, Allison! I hope you have a nice day! I hope you are happy! I hope you know that we actually do care!"

But of course they don't say any of those things.

Still holding some odd, misplaced, silly hope, I lean forward and attempt to peer into the front seat, aching for some eyes to hold mine and tell me that they see me.

Instead, the car zooms off without a word. My feet stay planted on the floor as I watch it recede down the street, my heart slowly breaking.


	5. Chapter Two: I've Seen You Before

I walk into the library and look around. I'm the first one in here. Hopefully the only one. I don't want anyone bothering me today.

The library is very fancy and high tech, which I don't understand since the school budget isn't exactly where it should be and money should be spent on field trips and pep rallies and that kind of thing. There are many windows, so lots of natural light can enter and illuminate the space.

But most of all, there are books.

Obviously. This is a library, what did I expect? It's way more than just a few, though. There are so many my head starts spinning. Why does a high school with less than a thousand people need more than a hundred thousand books? I don't think there are actually that many, but there might as well be. No one cares about books in this school though, especially since there's enough real-life drama going on around us.

There's a weird looking, brown sculpture right in the center of the empty-to-a-certain-extent space I'm inhabiting for the next nine hours. I try to figure out what it's supposed to depict, but only come up with _deformed human_ before I give up. It is perched behind six long tables that each seat six people, although there are only three at each that face the entrance.

I decide to take a seat at the front table on the far right. Just as I settle in, a blonde, skinny kid who's obviously a nerd walks in. Damn it. Guess I'm not going to be alone all day after all. I don't recognize him, but by the looks of him, I'm proud not to know who he is. I couldn't care less. I'm not here to make friends. I'm here to serve a prison sentence. I hope he doesn't try to talk to me.

He trudges behind me, taking his hat off, and I hear a chair being pulled out to my left in back of me.

Then another boy drags his feet through the door. This one I recognize. How could I _not_ recognize him? He's Andrew Clark, for goodness sakes. He's the pride, joy, and heartthrob of this school ― state wrestling winner, surprisingly good grades, and an awfully good-looking bastard. For all that I hear my girlfriends talking about him, I barely know the guy. No, scratch that. They don't talk about _him_ , they talk about his body. The girls couldn't care less about his achievements or personality. I've seen them in class ogle him, and I can't say I haven't done so either.

He obviously doesn't want to be here. I smile mentally. Honestly, who would? But it's more than that. He really, _really_ doesn't want to be here. Like he shouldn't even be here.

Like me.

I wonder if that's how I looked when I came in.

He seems tough, almost defiant. Feisty. Emotional. Emotionally driven. Not that I care.

I eyeball him, looking him up and down, checking him out as he shuffles towards the seat to my far left. His eyes and body stance ask clearly if he can sit there, but he points to the chair anyway. Don't see why he bothers. I shrug impassively, with a small flirty smile, and he takes a seat, one chair between us.

When I hear a scuffing noise, I look away from him and to the door. A boy flounces into the library. He hits each side of the door, reaches over and shoves something over on the counter to his left, spins a rack of sunglasses (what the hell is that doing there anyway?) with a squeak, picks up a piece of paper folded into quarters, and pockets it.

When he fully enters the library, he takes off his glasses and perches them on his head, arms swinging and clothes jangling as he stares at me, Andy, and the nerd. What the hell is he looking for in our faces? Is he trying to intimidate us? Anger us? Well, he's succeeding at the latter. I don't know why I feel angry at him on sight, but I do.

Obviously, I know who he is. John Bender, Sherman High School's resident criminal. What an attention-seeking idiot.

Bender approaches Nerd menacingly, and I can practically _feel_ the fear rolling off of Nerdo in waves. Andy and I turn around in our seats to see what will happen. Bender stops moving toward Nerdo only when he's almost on top of him, and points to his right. _Get out of the fucking chair, this seat is mine now._ Nerdo obliges, grabbing his stuff and dropping his dorky Bears hat. He hastily picks it up and cowers his way to a table on the left, sitting on the edge. Bender exchanges _I'm the leader_ glances with him before they put their asses in their new chairs. He pulls his glasses out of his long hair and throws them down on the table just as _another_ person walks in.

What the fuck happened at school this week for everyone in school to be in detention? Did they all plan something and get busted just as I get caught doing something silly like ditching class? Now I definitely won't have a peaceful day. Five different people in detention in one Saturday. God.

This one is a girl. She keeps her head down, short, dark brown hair falling in her face as she stares at her dinky black Converse. She speedwalks to the back, circling around the sculpture, obviously feeling all of our eyes on her. Eew, I can barely even watch. She's dirty, disgusting, and who the hell bought her that bag? Her outfit is terrible: a dark jacket, long black shirt, and black tights under a long skirt of the same color. No fashion sense _at all_. It's almost painful to look at her.

When I turn around again to see which seat she chooses, which is the one at the far left corner, I also see Bender making himself comfortable by situating his legs on another chair. So he's using two. What a rebel.

Because that's obviously what she is, I mentally christen her with the nickname Basketcase. Basketcase loudly tosses some kind of composition book on the table and pulls the hideous bag off of her shoulder before throwing herself into the chair.

Andy moves beside me, turning to me, and our eyes lock. He smiles and ducks his head down a little as he stifles a laugh. Aww. Cute. I laugh a little with him.

Nerdo's hands, gripping a plaid scarf, shake. He faces forward and raises his eyebrows, shaking his head a bit with an exhale. As if wondering how mentally stable she is. As if she's the only weird one in here.

Then I hear footsteps at the door.

* * *

I hate the damn kids at this school. They never let me stay home on a Saturday. I have to babysit them instead because of all of the things they've done, from the understandable to the bizarre. It's one of the many downsides of being a principal.

I walk in hoping they can see the sarcasm dripping from my every movement. I stride to the center of the room and scan each of their faces. There are many different emotions, but one that is the most identifiable. Boredom.

I want to laugh out loud. Seeing these juvenile delinquents being punished is very fulfilling. If they didn't want to be here, why did they do the things that would land them in here? Hmm? Have an answer?

I won't keep them bored for long.

"Well, well. Here we are." I smirk, mocking them. "I wanna congratulate you for being on time."

Claire Standish. The rich one, the prom queen, the one I have to let things slide for, even though she needs to learn a few lessons. She has the audacity to raise her hand and interrupt me with, "Excuse me, sir?"

I open my mouth, breathing in for the air necessary to reply, but she goes on without waiting for an answer. "I think there's been a mistake. I know it's detention, but, um…I don't think I belong in here." Her hand falls and she presses an index finger on her desk as if to emphasize her point.

I look at her and resist the urge to roll my eyes, outstretching my arm to pull my gray coat and black Oxford up so I can see my watch. I press my own index finger to its glass face, bringing my wrist closer to my face.

"It is now seven-oh-six."

Brian Johnson fidgets, checking his own wrist to check the time on his own watch. _Really, kid? Do you think I'm lying to you? My twenty dollar Timex isn't broken just yet._

Out of another corner of my eye, I see Standish exchange glances with Andrew Clark, who sits next to her. She gives him a look that says, _Ugh, what a bitch Principal Richard Vernon is, making us stay here in detention. We should've run off scot-free just because we're popular._

 _Well, that's not the way it works, missy_ , I want to tell her.

He returns her look with his signature side grin and shrug.

I see the smallest hand on my watch pass the twelve, and I continue, "You have exactly eight hours and fifty four minutes to think about why you are here. Ponder the error of your ways."

John Bender, who has so far been playing with a stray string from his red scarf, coughs and tilts his head up. He hacks, spits up into the air, and catches it back in his mouth. Standish shudders and makes a disgusted noise.

I point at them all, holding a batch of pencils wrapped together with a rubber band. "You may not talk." Standish, staring at her lap, looks up at me in shock. Johnson shifts his olive green backpack farther away from him and tries to transfer himself from the chair he's sitting in to the one that his backpack is sitting on. Seeing him, I say, "You may not move from these seats." Johnson looks up, scared, and moves back to his previous position.

I move up the aisle that splits the six tables into groups of three. Seeing Bender, my nemesis, makes a new type of anger flare up inside of me. "And _you_ ," I growl, jabbing my finger in his face and pulling the chair his legs are lying on out from under him, "will not sleep." I toss the chair back to where it's supposed to be.

Johnson takes his yellow scarf off and sets it on a chair next to him. Seeing him move, I look back at him and see the fear in his eyes again. It makes me feel better about myself. I know that at least he'll listen. At least he, if not anyone else, has at least a sliver of respect for authority.

I pull up the papers I have in my other hand to place in both. "Alright, people, we're gonna try something a little different today. We are going to write an essay." I head to the back, towards Allison Reynolds, whose body is faced away from me and towards the west windows, head hanging low. What a pathetic girl. "Of no less than a thousand words." I set a sheet of paper and a pencil down in front of her, and her head whips up as she turns to me. I can't comprehend the tumultuous expression on her face. It stirs up something deep in my heart, but I ignore the odd, unfamiliar feeling and quickly move on. "Describing to me who you think you are."

"Is this a test?" Bender asks.

I don't bother to answer him. "And when I say essay―" Bender slings his legs up onto the table and crosses them― "I mean essay." I continue around the room, distributing a pencil and a sheet of paper to each student. "I do not mean a single word repeated a thousand times. Is that clear, Mr. Bender?"

"Crystal."

"Good. Maybe you'll learn a little something about yourself." The last words come out as a growl. "Maybe you'll even…decide whether or not you'd care to return."

Johnson timidly gets up from his seat, raising his hand. "Uh…you know, I can answer that right now, sir, you know, that'd be no, a no from me―"

What an idiot. "Sit down, Johnson."

"Thank you, sir." He nods and obliges. Bender smirks at him, probably wondering if he's the only student in the history of this school who's ever paid any attention at all to rules or authority.

"My office is right across that hall." I point, making my message as clear as possible just in case they didn't get it the first time. Bender whips his rebellious long hair as he sarcastically turns in that direction. "Any monkey business is ill-advised. Any questions?"

Clark shakes his hanging head as if the question wasn't rhetorical.

I give the students one last hard look before taking a step towards the exit and hear Bender's voice.

"Yeah, I've got a question." I hesitate, even though I know I don't want to hear what he's got to say. "Does Barry Manilow know that you raid his wardrobe?"

Immediately, I imagine the frilly sleeves and shiny fabrics that have characterized Barry Manilow's trademark style. The other kids suppress laughs. Obviously this was not meant as a compliment, and I don't appreciate that. I turn my pointing finger to him.

"I'll reveal the answer to that question, Mr. Bender, next Saturday." The sneer on his face fades, which comforts me. "Don't mess with the bull, young man, or you'll get the horns."

I stride out before he can make another snide comment to infuriate me further.

* * *

John glances at me as I look at Principal Vernon's receding back. "That man," he says, thrusting a finger to point in his direction, "is a brownie hound."

I fiddle with the pen in my hands nervously, uncomfortable by the fact that the school criminal has acknowledged my presence in the room, but I twitch my face hoping that it'll tell him I totally understand where he's coming from.

Meanwhile, Andrew releases a breath and unbuttons his varsity letterman jacket, loosening up as if Principal Vernon's leaving has relieved all the stress in the world from this room.

I, for one, beg to differ. John Bender is sitting only a small aisle away from me, and that makes me unbelievably nervous.

Then, I hear this weird noise that I can't identify coming from behind me. I slowly turn around, hoping not to make anyone uncomfortable. I feel everyone else turn around about the same time as me.

The source of the noise is Allison, who is noisily biting her nails. She stares at the thumb she's been nibbling on before glancing up. When she sees all of our mouths parted in shock and our wide eyes, her gaze flickers over us before returning to her work ― completely demolishing her cuticles.

Finally, John says sarcastically, "If you keep eating your hand you're not gonna be hungry for lunch."

Allison bites one last chunk off of her thumbnail and spits it out in his direction.

John's face is a picture-perfect depiction of shock, but he doesn't _really_ look surprised, not like I am, because it doesn't quite reach his eyes. His eyes look slightly curious, but mostly analyzing.

"I've seen you before, you know," he says, as if he's letting her know that the fact might not be a good one, and the biker-gloved hand clenched around his red scarf moves, the index finger outstretched in her direction.

Principal Vernon aligns his head in the doorway so we can clearly see him.

John moves himself to a more forward-facing position, hanging his head so his long hair dramatically hangs in his face. Allison turns sharply away from him, her face contorted in a pout.

Principal Vernon, appeased, straightens himself back to his desk so his eyes are not on us anymore.


End file.
